


just stop myself around you

by buckystves



Category: James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 5 Times, M/M, i'm a little bit ashamed tbh, who honestly knows why i did this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckystves/pseuds/buckystves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q has rules, or maybe he doesn't; he can't tell anymore. It's all Bond's fault, either way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just stop myself around you

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this _ages_ ago and intended to post it but never did, because I'm hella lazy and didn't get around to making an account on here.
> 
> That's done now, though, obviously, so you get this. It's not beta'd and maybe isn't great, but who ever really knows tbh. Just... have fun? Yes. Have fun.

Q doesn’t mix his work and personal life. He just doesn’t. It’s a principle, a philosophy, a very strict rule that he’s placed on himself; the pretty women and handsome men of the field always stay unknown to him, numbers and letter and false names that he keeps from becoming obituaries for the records.

He succeeds for a few months without even realizing he’s been trying to, and it works; he doesn’t truly know any of the voices in his ear or the little dots on his screen, and when one of them dies he feels nothing but detached sympathy. He gets cold looks for it, sometimes, from the more sensitive of the workers in Q Branch, but who’s to judge him? Q does what he feels he has to, does it to protect himself and others and _everyone;_ it’s better this way.

But that changes, of course it does, because James Bond is the very embodiment of a perfect whirlwind, in all its oxymoronic glory. He blazes through a city without thought or regret, leaving nothing untouched and everything in upheaval;  he does it on each and every mission, every little assignment, everyday without even truly noticing. He does the same to Q, comes out of nowhere and shakes and disconcerts him to the point where Q wants, for the first time since being at MI6, to break his own rules.

***

When Bond almost dies for the first time since Q, it’s ridiculous. It’s avoidable. If it were anyone else, it would have been closely bordering on suicidal.

Bond gets caught in the crossfire between the guns of two hitmen, each hired to kill the other, and ends up shot twice before he gets cover inside of a nearby building. It’s more than a bit disconcerting that he probably got incredibly lucky to get away with just that.

“007,” Q barks into his little mic, “007, are you still with me?”

He gets a faint ‘still breathing’ in response, and sighs heavily.

“Were you hit?” He asks, voice remarkably even for the faint tremble he feels in his legs and the little twitch in his brow.

“Shoulder. One grazed my hip,” comes the answer, accompanied by breathing that’s a bit too heavy for Q’s liking. “Bleeding’s mostly stopped, I’ve staunched it. Manageable.”

Q rests his head in his hands, inhaling deeply through his nose and exhaling through his mouth. Easy, relaxing breaths; in, out, in again, out again, repeat. He’s broken his rule of attachment, he thinks, but he has a job to do and that’s a matter for later.

“Bond, we can have a team there for you in 6 minutes. Can you hold on that long?”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of, princess, you should know that by now. We wouldn’t want you to worry yourself to fainting, would we?”

Q can practically _hear_ the how smug he is, can see just what he must look like cradling that gunshot wound while the corners of his mouth lift up just so.

“I think I’m rather more of a technological knight, don’t you?” Q mutters, typing a quick message to the response team’s leader that they need to _hurry, you know that manageable doesn’t mean alright._

Bond huffs out a laugh down the line, and Q bites at the inside of his cheek (whether out of habit or the need to repress a smile, he’ll never tell).

“Quite.”

Q goes quiet and stays that way, monitoring Bond’s heart rate and breathing while carefully tracking the progression of the response team.

“Less than a minute away,” he says, just as he hears the evac they’ve called in flooding into the building.

“I told you I wasn’t dying today.”

“No one said that you were, and as such you’re still expected to bring the equipment back in one piece, 007.”

“Noted.”

***

It’s a matter of national security. It always is, Q supposes, when it comes to MI6, but the urgency of it is much more glaringly obvious when the matter is that of a terrorist attack.

 It doesn’t have anything to do with terrorists, not really; that’s just what the Q Branch workers like to call it. In truth, it was a second of lowered security and a few well-timed curious children, but it’s a hassle nevertheless.

This does, however, occur on the night of M’s visiting hours, the ones arranged specifically inside headquarters for her agents. Q had planned on going, paying his respects to her; she’d held an important place in the hierarchy of MI6, and he didn’t intend on letting that go unacknowledged. But now – although he’s sure the rest of the Branch could handle it – those plans are shot all to hell, because there’s not a chance that he’ll leave his work.

(It’s been engraved in his mind by his parents, always expecting so much, telling him that work is more important, work is _always_ more important.)

He’s tapping idly at the keys, trying to re-encrypt and safeguard the files in a new way – because if all it took was lowered security for MI6 documents to be accessed, well, there’s clearly a problem – when Bond walks in, leather shoes and a dark suit tailored perfectly to his frame.

“You’re not tagging along to M’s funeral, then?” Q feels Bond’s hand at the small of his back as he asks, can faintly smell his cologne. Q pauses in his typing and shoots a glance sidelong, and then Bond is moving back and leaning easily against Q’s desk.

“It’s not a funeral, 007, you know that.”

Bond hums quietly, and leans into Q.

“London can survive without you for an hour.”

The words are mouthed against the shell of Q’s ear and he can feel as well as hear them; he resists the urge to press back into the sensation.

“The last time London was left without me, she almost burnt herself to the ground.” Q responds, even though he knows Bond is right.

“I’m sure those kids have already had their fun, Q.”

He walks out, then, and Q thinks he might just do the same.

“Shit,” he sighs to himself, typing a few commands into the computer and then closing its lid. “Shit.”

***

Q is one of 5 people still working, poring over reports or agents or _something, a_ nd he’s tired. But Bond is out on a mission somewhere in Greece, and that’s just a little bit more important than Q’s sleeping habits.

He stifles a yawn, but apparently Bond hears it anyway; Q really can’t be bothered to care.

“Tired?” Bond asks, voice clear over the connection like it always is.

“That doesn’t matter, 007.”

“It will if you pass out when you’re needed.”

Q scoffs, tapping out a few lines of basic code to distract himself. “I’m always needed, otherwise you’d get yourself caught.”

“Right,” Bond replies, and Q can tell that the words are being said through a smirk. “And your job would be incredibly boring without me.”

Q feels his lips quirk upwards in a smile.

“Yes, sadly,” and Q doesn’t know where that came from, because he doesn’t share personal things and that’s exactly what all of those truths are.

Bond is blessedly quiet, and there’s the sound of him swallowing a drink of something from the other end of the connection.

“What’s that, then?” Q asks.

“Vodka.”

“You’re drinking?”

“Yes.”

“ _Stop_.”

“Too late.”

***

Q is not a field agent. He’s had no special training for it, can barely even shoot a gun. Oh, he’s accurate as can be, of course, but he’s too uncomfortable; tension is unbecoming in an operative. Ask him to disassemble your gun in under a minute, though, and there you have it; no special training required.

But however much he and his team are not field agents, Q still sees many of his colleagues running out around London to help an agent when the medics are too slow, patch them up as best they can and not always getting a thank you in return. Q’s told himself he’ll never do that, because he’s done his job; if they get themselves injured despite his best efforts, well, it’s not on his shoulders.

And so, the one time he decides to go out into the field, of course it’s because of Bond. Of course.

He practically bolts out of the office as soon as he knows Bond is hit, taking the fastest route possible to get to the tube entrance that he needs.

He finds Bond in the same locked bathroom Q thought he would, sees a dead body on the floor and Bond staunching the bleeding in his own thigh once Q picks the lock. Bond’s head snaps up, and Q finds a gun pointed at him faster than he can blink.

“Bond,” Q snaps, moving towards him with all the first aid supplies he’d managed to grab. “Shooting me would do you more worse than good.”

He huffs and flicks on the gun’s safety, setting it down beside him and putting more pressure on his thigh.

“Did the bullet go through?” Q asks, taking Bond’s wrist in his hand to move it away from the wound.

“No. Still in there.”

Q sighs and takes a look at the things he’s brought with him, figuring out just what he’ll be able to do with his few tools. He’s quick to decide his course and gets to work, and Bond barely makes a sound save for the odd hiss of pain.

“You really need to stop letting yourself get shot,” Q says, taping gauze over the wound and stitching up the hole in Bond’s clothing enough for it to only be noticeable upon inspection.

“I’d like to see you try not to get shot, in my position,” Bond mutters, brushing off his suit, infinitely casual in his motions.

“And I’d like to see you try and replicate your Walther, but clearly you wouldn’t be able to.”

“Clearly?”

“Clearly.”

***

Q Branch is nearly empty; there are 5 people there, 4 slaving over the wellbeing of assigned agents, and Q. He’s admittedly tired, but he’s testing new prototypes and can’t quite afford to go back to his flat just yet.

He hears the tapping of keys from the desks around him, distracted by his work, and then one of the girls closest to him.

“Um, Boss? Could you come here?” She asks, swiping her bangs out of her eyes.

He rises from his chair, nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and leans over her desk to eye her monitor.

“What is it?”

“007, sir. He’s blinked off the radar; all of his trackers have been either removed or disabled.”

Q arches an eyebrow and goes back to his own desk, tapping in a few commands to activate Bond’s earpiece (maybe he should install a tracker in that, too).

“Bond? 007, are you there?” Q waits for a moment, expecting Bond’s voice to come through the speaker.

It doesn’t, and Q feels a dull ache start in his chest that he knows comes from the let down that almost certainly follows attachment, at least in his experience.

He hears the girl from earlier suppress a giggle, and he doesn't even bother turning around to say, “Well, you’re back awfully fast.”

“Of course I am,” and Q can tell now that Bond’s only a few feet behind him.

“You really should stop doing that,” Q muses.

He doesn’t jump when he feels Bond’s hand at his waist, but does shift away a little when he squeezes, scrunching the fabric of Q’s clothes.

“I will once you tell me exactly why you mumble so often about ‘rules’.”

Q can hear the smirk in his voice, like he _knows_ already, and wonders why in the world his exception of any sort is James Bond.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bond backs off, humming.

“You’ll tell me,” he offers, walking backwards out of the office.

“Doubtful.”

Q doesn’t really think of his at rules at all that night, and therefore isn’t able to ponder whether _that’s_ a broken rule, too.

***

By the time Q has been almost permanently assigned to Bond as his handler, he hardly ever pays any mind to his rules anymore; he’s almost certain that ending up in Bond’s bed most nights breaks each and every single one.


End file.
